What if, maybe, it was fate?
by fra22
Summary: What if 103 didn't end with Justin and Brian dancing together? What if Justin hadn't been a persistent little s***?    This is an alternative universe story questioning the role of fate and the effect a single fact, a single person can have on your life.


Warning: I don't want to ruin the "scenario twist" for anyone but still want to warn you that you should not read this if you want to stay in an happy mood for the rest of the day.

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><p>What if, maybe, it was fate?<p>

I sometimes think about him. I used to see his face in my dreams. I always woke up with my heart clenched and short breaths or my sheets wet. Wet dreams were easier to move on from. I could sell myself the idea that it was because he was my first sexual encounter and it had been good, very very good. He certainly knew what he was doing. Bu the other dreams were harder to forget. They were bitter, tainted with regret, sorrow. I often wondered after waking up with his face printed in my brain, what could have been. What may have happened if that night in the club he chose me? What would have happened to "us"? Would we have been an "us"? And what would have happened to me? What if he picked me and tore me away from those two guys I stole from him? Would my life be different, would I be different? I guess it's impossible to know.

That night he didn't picked me and I gave up. There is so much reject and humiliation a guy can take. I felt so stupid pressed between those guys, watching him choosing his new prey. I really thought he liked me. I saw him looking at me while I was caught into this sandwich. I thought he was interested. I guess he was just turned on by the threesome we were forming; apparently threesomes turn on people. It was that or he was simply surprised or mad. But he was not interested in me. It took me that night to realize he was not my prince. I was so caught up in my fantasy, planning schemes to see him, to be with him, convincing me there was something more about him, something we had shared, that I was willing to forget that he already was done with me, that he rejected me.

I should have seen that, especially after that night when he kicked me out of his place to fuck "George good fuck". Yeah, I still remember that. To be fair he didn't actually kicked me out. He just didn't let me in. He never did. He explained it to me. Very painfully, he explained that I was just a fuck, he had me. We were supposed to move on. He certainly was, did. I should have remembered that night when I was making stupid plans with Daphne to "have" him again. I never "had" him. I still remember that night. I cried myself to sleep, feeling so numb, dumb, used, disappointed and… heartbroken. Why didn't I remember that night before going to Babylon and humiliate myself again. That night going back home I cried myself to sleep, feeling so numb, dumb, used, disappointed and… heartbroken, AGAIN! I was also a bit scared. Those two guys were pissed. They didn't want me to go. They called me names. They told me I was a tease. I probably was. But once he left the dance floor, it down to me what was going on, what was going to happen. I guess I was not ready to be a slut and sleep with two more guys, the same guys at the same time. Thank God Daph was there! She yelled at those guys. We made quite a scene. I was so embarrassed. I had to walk out of that club, half naked. We never found my shirt back. Walking down the street, hearing all those guys whistling me, calling me, offering stuff I would not repeat, never even want to think about, I realized what I was: a piece of meat. A piece of ass and guys will say anything, do anything to have me, to have it. And I gave up.

I didn't return to Liberty Avenue. Daphne tried so many times to bring me back there. I couldn't. What if I had run into him? Or into those two guys? Or "George good fuck"? I would have been mortified. After some time she gave up too. She was a good friend Daphne. I miss her. Mum says it's life: "you grow up, you grow apart", like it was some package. Well, growing up sucks, I told her.

I dreamed a lot about him that year. I imagined what he was doing. I was having some day dreams where we met at a corner of a street, in a shop… and we saw each other and we were drawn to each other and talked and laughed. He sported the smile he had on the jeep coming from the hospital and we couldn't take our eyes away from one another and we were finally together… happy. What a school boy dream. I wasn't very smart back then. I didn't know anything about anything.

I thought about going to the diner, casually see if he would appear or talk to this loud and nice lady, see what he was becoming. But what good will have come from that? So I went on with my life. The dreams were more and more separated. The desire dissipating with them, until he was just a blurry image. A scent of sweat and masculinity. A feeling of softness and strength. An impression. A memory.

I went on with my life like it was supposed to be. I did what I could to forget him, to put him in the back of my mind. And it worked. My subconscious may acted up some nights but I was going through the days without his smile, his smell, his eyes, his voice haunting me like they used to at the beginning. Until that day.

I was back home for the holiday. I finally had the gut to go back to that street where I could have met fate, except I met "the face of God", except he wasn't really God. It was just some teenage fantasy. Anyway, I went back there to get the vibe, to see if it was the same. I was a scared little boy all over again, taking everything with big eyes. It seems I was still a piece of good ass if I can trust the looks and offers I got.

I went in, heart pounding, head spinning. Nothing had changed. It was like time froze there: Just different stuff on the walls, different patrons…same waitress. Still loud and kind.

I sat down at the counter; same seat that that first and last time. I really didn't know what I was doing there. It was just an impulse I had that day. Something made me drive there, walk down the street and push the door. I would like to call it fate but I think it was just curiosity. I don't believe in fate. Maybe because it seems it's not on my side. That day was no different. He wasn't there. I ate and I guess waited. He never showed up. When the rush slowed down she came to me and asked me if I was new. Told me she hasn't seen me here before. I told her I was not in town… out of nowhere I told her I had been there once before and that she had been nice to me. She smiled at that. I told her she called me "Sunshine". That made us both laugh. Then she looked at me very seriously and told me she knew why she said that. I had a gorgeous smile, but no perky eyes. It made her sad for a second. Or maybe it made me sad for a second, don't know why.

Anyway, she was been nice and I remembered she knew him. She was his best friend's mum if I recall correctly, and let's face it I could recall everything perfectly if I wanted to. Those 3 nights are graved into my memory.

I had balls that day. I took a risk I was never taking anymore. I asked her. I told her: "I also remembered your son, Michael. He was nice to me."

"Yes, that's Mickey" she said with what I identify as a "mom smile": proud and loving.

"I also met his best friend, Brian. Are they still best friends?"

She paused for a moment and said: "They were best friends but…"

I must have looked puzzled or inquisitorial because she continued and I wish, oh I so wish she didn't. I wish I took my legs and run. I wish I didn't go to the diner. Certain questions are better left unanswered. And it was one of them. Maybe the only one I shouldn't have asked about. But… she continued…

"Honey, Brian died."

And that was it. A punch in the stomach. A knife in the heart. I was really stunned. She must have seen that because she touched my arm and apologized: "I'm sorry, sweetie, sometimes I forget there is a world outside Liberty Avenue. Did you know him well?"

She had that motherly look and it kept me grounded. I nodded yes/ no, I'm not sure. I know I found the strength to look at her and say the only thing left to ask: "How?"

"Cancer. Went to Ibiza. Never came back. I think the saddest thing is that he could have survived it. He didn't even try." And then she left. I think if I could describe the expression of her face at that moment I would said it was "heartbroken". And not the "I just got dumped", heartbroken kind. The " a part of me died", heartbroken kind.

I hope I paid my meal. I hope I left her a tip. I don't know. All I remember is puking in an alley, on my knees, my face against a wall. I had bricks marks imprinted on my forehead when I saw my face in the view mirror of my car. I don't know how I managed to drive or walk, or how I got into my room. I just fall on my bed and stopped. I stopped breathing the moment she told me the hard truth. I stopped moving on the bed. After that his face, his blurry face blocked my view. I got naked; the fabrics were burning my skin. I took a chair, place it in front of my closet, stood on it and retrieved a box. It's my art supplies box. Full of dust. My pencils and sketchbooks are still inside. Some untouched. Frozen in time too. I found it immediately, like I always knew where it was, like it was a piece of my heart that I had placed there, hoping to return to and take back with me. I opened the sketchbook, turned the pages full of male nudes and jocks and Brian's name and his face that burned my eyes and burned my brain and stood bright and detailed in front of me as I walked into the shower, turned the water, collapsed on my ass and cried, my heart bleeding.

I stayed in the shower a long time, long enough for my skin to be wrinkled and to be shaking convulsively, frozen. The water was now cold as ice but I didn't even notice. It's my mum who helped me to get out of there, she told me later. I think at that time my mind didn't registered anything for a long while. I left Pittsburg two days later, once I succeeded to keep some food. My mum was freaked out that I didn't want to go to the doctor because it seemed like I was really sick. I had the flu or something. I couldn't eat or sleep. I had a fever and I was shaking all the time. My eyes were blank. That's what she told me. I don't know, maybe it's true. She gave me a lot of stuff to take back home with me. I was supposed to call her as soon as I got there and go to bed and rest. I even freaked out Molly. Molly for Christ's sake! The Mollusk even brought me soup, kindly asking me not to give her my germs because she had a party she didn't want to miss. Yeah, I felt better after knowing that. My sister was still a teenager. Caught in her own world, her world that did not shattered into a million of pieces. Her world still stood and I was relieved. The world still span. The world will keep spinning. For them.

I went back to Dartmouth, called my mom, told her what she needed to hear and broke up with Karen. She was crying so much when she called my parents, Mum told me. They loved Karen. I loved her too, she was a good girlfriend and she was nice and smart. Even pretty. Everybody loved Karen, especially my parents. Mum was planning to give her her wedding dress and Molly's and my baby clothes for our kids. Mum was so sad for me and Karen. Dad, as always, was pissed; told me that I should apologize and make up with Karen and call and apologize to her parents.

"Do you realize how people will look at me tomorrow at the club? What will I say to her father? You better fix this!". He hung up, just to call me back twenty minutes later.

"If you think you are going to go through a rebellion phase now, think again Son. You are not a kid anymore. Take your responsibilities. You are going to finish your business classes, graduate, marry Karen and come work with me as planned. No discussion."

This time he didn't call back.

Karen asked me why. Everything was fine between us. We were happy, we had plans. We were perfect for each other.

Yes, I had found the perfect little girl, woman to marry, like he said. But like I told him, I wanted him. He was too old, I was too young. I grew up, he's dead.

I think the worst part was not actually to know that he died but that he didn't fight. It was so not like him; at least I always pictured him as a fighter, a tiger. The way he hunted. His job, his kid. I only saw Gus once and I know he wasn't supposed to raise him but he was a dad and he was proud of having a son. I saw that in his eyes. He was teaching his kid the alphabet for fuck's sake! He didn't even try for him!

That's what makes me the saddest. Because if he didn't try it means that he didn't care if he died, maybe he even wanted to. So he was not happy. No way he was. Maximum of pleasure, minimum of bullshit my ass! Maximum of death, minimum of life! He was in his young thirties. He had a lot to look forward to. And I guess he had no love. If he had he would have fought for his life. Well I'm not going to do it. Fuck him. Fuck his fucked up mantra. I won't marry a girl, have kids and make us all miserable. I may never find someone to love me, I may always be piece of ass for guys but I'm not going to have cancer and go to a stupid island to die in a stupid beach or club in the middle of drunk and high strangers.

I don't want to have cancer and not want to fight. I don't want to want to die because I'm so unhappy.

I might feel dead inside right now but maybe one day I won't anymore. Maybe one day I will find the strength to be who I am, who I want to be, despite what my parents want. Maybe it was really fate. Maybe I was supposed to meet him for another reason than just for him to take my virginity. Maybe he was supposed to teach me a lesson: I'm queer, I'm a fag and fuck them all!

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><p><span>Disclaimer<span>: I do not own any of the characters. Property of CowLip


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